Silently Screaming
by IvoryNemRodd
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy, supermodel and fashion designer's career is ruined in a car crash. Paralyzed from his legs and unable to speak, he'll have to communicate to the world thru his quiet child, Mathieu.Fatherly!FrancexSon!Mathieu Ratings may change.
1. Chapter 1

**~Disclaimer~**

**Totally don't own a single thing and if i did, there would be a hell of alot more smut and Yaoi! All belongs to their rightful owners**

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><p><em>His life used to be so wonderful.<em>

_Fame_

_Power _

_Wealth_

_Women…_

_All of this was lost in one single accident that cost him his entire career. One stupid drunk taxi driver rammed into his expensive cherry red Hommell car, killing himself instantly (lucky him) and ruining this beautiful body._

_His car flipped, trapping his beautiful form in wreckage and hitting his legs. The glass shattered, hitting his chest and at some point, another rammed in, digging a sharp piece of metal into his chest, piercing his right lung. _

_Everything went black as his eyes sleepily closed as panicked pedestrians ran towards him. Would he die at that very moment?_

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><p>"Papa…I've brought you your breakfast."<p>

Francis turned his head.

His son, Mathieu brought in a tray full of food. Orange juice, a glass of milk, 3 fluffy pancakes stacked on top of another with maple syrup dripping down the sides. Another small plate with scrambled eggs and a few strips of bacon placed on the side.

Truly a meal fit for royalty.

Mathieu carefully placed it on his lap.

Francis' eyes said _merci_ as he gently took his fork, and took a piece of the first stacked pancake and placed it in his mouth. He savored the taste, _tres bien. _Definitely French. Only the French could create a simple meal that tastes as if the angels blessed its very ingredients

His son opened the curtains of the small room. The room that Francis occupied was completely white like hospital room, accompanying the custom-made hospital bed in the room. Large and grand like the master who inhabits the place yet cold and empty which only went away when Mathieu was there.

Francis watched Mathieu with sad eyes. If it wasn't bad enough he was condemned to suffer a silent punishment for his sins, he had unintentionally dragged Mathieu into spending his entire life taking care of this selfish French young (not old!) man.

"…_.and will anyone dedicate themselves with their charitable hearts to take care and support Monsieur Bonnefoy with this terrible condition?" The lawyer asked around the room. _

_No one said anything. All the press was here, his family, old flames and new lovers from the previous years, friends or at least what he considered to be friends were there. No one said anything. No one spoke a word or even spoke up._

_Not even Antonio and Gilbert spoke up. His only true friends. Didn't they feel his pain? His suffering?_

"_Umm…I will volunteer!" A soft voice spoke up. The lawyer had almost missed were it not for some shouting right after._

"_Matthew No! What do you think you're doing?"_

"_And who might you be young man?" The lawyer inquired. The nervous young boy stood up, in a worn out blue suit. Bonnefoy 2003 Autumn collection suit Francis notes._

"_Umm…I'm Mister Bonnefoy's eldest son, Mathieu. I have all the necessary documents right here and my house is large enough and my job is stable enough to support my Dad." _

_Francis took a nice long look at his eldest son. The Cher certainly had his French beauty he'll give him that. Blonde hair that seemed to start as hay and convert to gold at the ends of his locks. Much like the princess of Rumpelstumplestiltskin who was able to transform hay into gold. _

_Violet eyes that never seemed to stay one color. At one angle they look dark blue but at another glance, they were as brilliant as polished Amethysts. _

"_Looks like someone is actually insane enough to put up with you Francis." His modeling agent whispered. Francis arched a perfectly waxed brow. What's that supposed to mean?_

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><p>Francis broke out of his thoughts as Mathieu began to pour hot water into his tea, dropping anti-pain pills into his tea and then placing two teaspoons of sugar into the tea. His doctor recommended taking these twice a day in order to avoid any post-pain from the car accident.<p>

Francis looked outside the window once more. Oh, how it would feel to stroll the streets of lovely Paris in the morning, to walk past the many coffee shops and pastry shops, smelling the fresh air once more and seeing the many Parisians walk around in their busy lives, not seeing how fortunate they are to be able to admire everything.

Mathieu noticed this and went over to open the window, letting the brisk morning air stream in.

Close _cheri_, but not quite.

"Would you like to talk a walk in Paris _Papa?_ Oh, and Mr. Kirkland called to see how I was doing. I told him I'm fine. Feliks also called in to check how you're doing and seeing if you were up to designing their new spring line. I told him I'll ask. Do you need anything else _Papa? _"Mathieu asked, picking up the plates and glasses.

Francis shook his head. _Non. _

"Alright, I'll be cleaning around the house if you need me. "

Francis leaned back in his bed.

It's horrible enough to punish him for his stupidity over the years but why bring innocent Mathieu into his situation. The boy was a saint. An angel. Nothing at all like his sinner father. Call it guilt or some odd fascination that god has to torment him with unused feelings, but having Mathieu care for him and spending his time with only him saddened him. Didn't Mathieu have another goal in life, a love in some other country or town?

Why did god choose someone so selfless and kind to care for a bitter sulking mature (Not old!) man.

Why must God be so cruel?

Everything from his hips down to the tip of his toes had no longer any feeling to them. He could no longer wiggle his toes after making love which was a strange fetish of his. He could no longer suggestively grind against others in clubs blasting loud music that could only covers others cries of passion and want.

He even lost his precious voice. His beautifully accented French masculine voice that loved flirted with women and singing random French songs when he wanted. He could no longer speak his thoughts anymore no could he express himself to others.

He was a prisoner in his own body. Forced forever to endure life and not be able to do a thing about it.

Before he knew it, the old oak grandfather clock in the parlor room chimed. He counted the chimes.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12!

And he had not even taken a sip of tea that was served to him at 8!

This boredom is killing him! _Merde!_ Forced to lay in this hospital bed for a few months was horrendous. At this rate, he'll be having gray hairs when he's actually allowed to leave the room.

He took a small moment to admire the house from what he could see from the open door. This used to be his parent's home just to let you know my readers.

A lovely French apartment complex in the heart of Paris that had a lovely view of the Seine River. Furniture of only the finest class and elegance to suite their tastes. Rich oak floors and cupboards and shelves with dainty white silk curtains and white couches and tables. Several paintings placed tastefully around the home.

Mainly black and white photographs of Francis in his modeling poses, best photographs over the years and some very few photographs of his children. The 6 of them although he's quite sure there is plenty more (being the promiscuous man he was, he really didn't doubt it).

Although Mathieu is his oldest, he quite sure of it. He was born in Canada and has a have brother from that American model in New York (last time he checked, the boy's name was Andrew or Alfred or something like that), a few creole children in southern U.S, one around Louisiana (which he remembers because he was quite smashed at the Mardi Gras there), and he believes a child born in Thailand or Cambodia or somewhere around Asia (can't remember where but the child's oriental for sure) and quite a few around Africa and a daughter in Monaco and another in Seychelles.

Now whatever previous life he had is ruined! _Dire au revoir_ to sexing around a lot and _Bonjour_ boredom!

"Papa, would you like to eat something?"

At least his life wasn't a total waste after all. At the very least, he knew someone loved him in this cruel unforgiving world. That was the small hope he had left in this world.

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><p><strong>Hi everybody! It's me, VampiresSuck! I'm such a horrible author, leaving other stories at cliff hangers and then writting another one and posting it. Well...fans should kill...<strong>

**But i decided to give you kiddies a little present for the holidays!**

**This plotline and idea actually came the book i was reading for homework _The Count of Monte Cristo_. It is a fucking brilliant piece of literature. And i shall describe it in the most homey-way i can**

_**So this dude, Edmond Dantes, is like the wingman of this ship captain dude who dies and so the captain left his job to his wingman Edmond and he's got like this chick back in Marseille who's like totes in love with him and they're getting married and like at Edmond's Bacherlor party, he gets arrested the cops who lock him up for shit he didn't do and stuff and so he finds out from some wise man who got him arrested and in the prison he plots out his revenge and stuff ...**_

__**And it's brilliant! I also watched the anime _Gankutsuou:The Count of Monte Cristo!_**

**If you've read the book, then you can probably guess who Francis and Mathieu are loosely based off.**


	2. Chapter 2

Francis sat wide awake in his hospital bed in the room. He sat sedately, staring outside the room in his window. He made no sudden movements. Pristine blue eyes stared immobile at the window, or rather what lay beyond the window.

Fluffy white clouds that seemed softer than cotton floating peacefully in the great expanse of sky. A few pigeons could be seen going about their business on the roofs of the Parisian buildings. Pedestrians walking the streets in flurry, going to school, work, business and pleasure. Not knowing how lucky they are for being able to move their lower limbs about and on the go.

Francis blamed God for this. He wasn't supposed to be paralyzed. He wasn't supposed to lose his job. He wasn't supposed to lose his career that he worked for all his life. He wasn't supposed to be here, unable to move like a vegetable and forced to watch everyone happy with their lives. He couldn't even have the mercy of being able to voice his pain aloud to anyone, to say what ran through his head because God is making him suffer this eternal punishment in silence.

Francis wished for many things…

His voice.

The ability to move his legs.

His friends.

His countless nameless lovers.

But why would that matter? He lost his voice and the ability to move his legs and now everyone pretends he doesn't exist. He was only another famous tragedy in their eyes. A famous tragedy…

_Je ne vais pas pleurer_

_Je ne vais pas pleurer_

_I will not cry_

_I will not cry_

_I will not cry_

Even as he told himself in his head, his lovely subconscious voice harshly criticizing himself, the flow of tears released themselves like small streams down his pale cheeks.

He did not cry as rescuers released him from the mangled mess of a car.

He did not cry as the doctor simply explained to him that he was paralyzed,

He did not cry as he watched dozens of faces look at him with pity at the hearing in court

He did not cry when his eldest son had the mercy to submit himself to the rest of his life taking care of his selfish father who was suffering an eternal punishment from God to suffer the rest of his days in silence.

He was Francis Bonnefoy! Devoted Frenchman! Lover of wine and women. Model and fashion designer extraordinaire!

He does not cry!

He does not and will not cry and he will not give God the satisfaction of seeing him cry for all his sins and crimes he has committed on Earth.

Hot teardrops turned to liquid ice as they dripped onto the blanket on his lap.

This was what his life was going to be like the rest of his life then…the rest of his life in silence and bearing the weight of his sins as punishment. Was this going to be like his funeral too?

Hundreds of pairs of eyes pitying the man in the coffin with not a single pair of eyes crying. No one would say anything significant in his name. No one would remember him for the things he has done.

Not that he didn't care or anything…All those people were people he was going to see in hell.

Maybe a few won't but they should!

Arthur…Gilbert….Antonio-maybe! He's not quite sure yet but possibly the Spaniard would be the only one from the trio to go to Heaven.

The doorbell rang.

How pitiful…he couldn't even say "who is it" or "The door's open!" Francis cried more.

"Papa_! _I brought some cakes from the bakery that's down the street by the printer shops. And I also brought the- Why are you crying?" Mathieu, his eldest son from Canada asked.

Francis didn't know where in Mathieu's heart could he find the love to provide to selfish old man. He felt too constricted. Not by the multiple layers of bandages covering his chest and legs but by the feeling of being trapped in your body.

He is now an eternal prisoner in his body, to be forced into the prison of his skin and to suffer a lifetime punishment.

Mathieu didn't know what to do about his crying father. He used to see him as a strong individual, able to do anything his heart wants. He was the man he admired so many years on the television.

Mathieu grabbed a box of tissues and handed them to his father.

Francis grabbed one and blew his nose.

Where was this depression coming from?

Francis wiped the tears away with the sleeve of his shirt. Almost like a child.

Francis gave a fake smile.

_Don't worry about it._

He wanted to say that. To be able to tell someone not to worry about him.

Mathieu cleared his throat.

"The hospital sent a wheelchair over so if you want to go outside..." He trailed off, reading his father's face. Francis looked outside some fresh air would do him some good. He nodded, accepting the invitation.

Mathieu grabbed the wheelchair that was placed by the door. He opened it, extendeding the seat before placing a small blanket folded over it to cushion the seat.

Francis wondered how Mathieu was going to be able to put him on te wheelchair before Mathieu picked him up bridal style. Francis, unused to being carried like this, blushed out of embarrassment. Now he had a very good idea that Mathieu was indeed very strong.

He couldn't very well tell since that Mathieu wore were large oversized hoodies and loose jeans. Even at the hearing, he wasn't able to tell with Matheiu wearing that dreadfully horrendous ill-fitting suit that was too large on his frame.

Mathieu kindly wrapped another blanket over Francis' shoulders, incase it was cold outside. Noticing his father's wild bed hair,he grabbed a brush and immediantly brushing his Fathr's long blonde hair.

Francis didn't argue. How could he? There would be no words to come out and no argument to be made. It has been so long since someone would actually brush his hair.

Mathieu tied up the hair with a hairband, a low ponytail. He pushed the wheelchair out the room, Francis could fully examine finally his own living room. It was exactly as he had left a few weeks ago. Vogue, Style and other magazines precariously left on the coffee table.

It felt strangely surreal. As if he merely an outsider in that house. That house is supposed to be filled with laughter and pleasure, attractive men and women speaking and the scent of wine filling the air. Warm rich perfumes on the furniture, telling a story of who's been there.

Matheiu walked them out of the door and into the hallway of the apartment, locking the door and heading toward the old elevator. Francis used to take the stairs…he used to run down the stairs in a flurry with coffee threatening to spill and papers by his arms.

He no longer could live that life. No point in brooding about it anymore. The elevator played the soft melody of Edith Piaf. Surely his parents listened to her, Francis wrinkled his nose. He was not that old yet!

Yet, this song made a soft impression in his heart. It was tugging at the heartstrings like a talented harpist, with gentle fingers plucking away.

Alas, an elevator ride could last s long. The doors opened to main lobby, that as usual, had no secretary or watchmen at the door. Matheiu pushed along to the crisp air of Paris in the morning.

There wasn't many people walking around but there were a good amount strolling around.

" Where would you like to go Papa?" Mathieu asked.

Francis shrugged his shoulders like a teenager, casual and uncaring. Matheiu, turned to the left. His father would surely these streets like the back of his hand so he attempted to converse with his father with what's going around.

Francis turned his head and Matheiu leaned to see what his father's face said.

_Matheiu. I'm mute not blind nor deaf. I can see with my own eyes what's going around._

Matheiu hid his face in shame. He was only trying to help. Francis let out a silent sigh and observed the people around him. Stores were opening for the morning, coffee shops beginning to brew the first batches of coffee.

School children being walked by parents and along friends, chatting excited for the day. Buisness men and women scurrying to their cars. Still surreal. Sulking in his misery, Francis forgot that the world did not revolve him. It would revolve on its axis as usual, people would go about their business as usual. The economy would still be horrible in the United States, he would still hate Arthur Kirkland, English food would still be horrible and have the similarity of taste like bat droppings.

It shot Francis straight in the chest. It darkened his outlook and mood.

_Take me home now Mathieu _

Francis would have commanded Matheiu with his strong French accent and pronounce the sharpness of vowels.

Mathieu, sensing his Father's irritableness quickly bought a small bag of warm glazed Almonds.

"mmmmmnn" Mahtieu absolutely loved the food served in Paris.

Francis popped a glazed almond in his mouth. It was warm and the glaze practically melted in his mouth. It was decent…

Still, Matheiu did buy them to soften his sour mood. He wasn't old enough to be senile yet.

Matheiu talked about every random thought that came in his as Francis pateiently listened. He listened to crazy stories of Matheiu and his son, Alfred burning down the kitchen in London, playing random video games, vactions in the states, Mathieu's signed Vancouver Canucks shirt for Andrew Ebbett.

He half wondered about Mathieu's love life. Seeing as he won't be able to have anymore, it would be more interesting to pry into someone elses. Which brought up the next question?

Who taught Mathieu the birds and the bees, how to get some on his first date, how to pick-up a girl? Has he lost his virginity yet?

These were things a worrying father should know. Who was Mathieu's first kiss? Who was his first lay? Is he gay?

He missed out on the first-he didn't even know Mathieu's age yet! What kind of father doesn't know how old his son is?

He vaguely remembers something about his Canadian child being born in _Juillet (july for you uncultured people) _or was it Decembre?

He'll eventually get to that! Eventually… he has all the time in the world to do something!

Feliks did want him to design the new Spring Fashion line 20XX. He still had till Janvier 17 to turn it in. It's been a while since he's designed for Felik's magazine…

Francis pointed to an art supply shop that was across the street. Matheiu took the hint.

Time to go back to his old passion….

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><p><strong>Sup Everybody! how's it hanging? So I updated this thanks to my first two reviewers. I'll also put the warning next time to have a box of tissues in case cuz this will be a tear-jerker (;_:). I'm not kidding. So this a fair warning. Updates shouldn't take so long seeing as how I've got it typed up already. warning-suprise ending you may not enjoy. <strong>

**Bye!**


	3. Chapter 3

Mathieu peeled away the carrot's rough outer skin. He cut off the tops and bottoms and sliced the carrots in half and then once more in half. He tossed the carrots carelessly in the pot filled with water. He sliced some potatoes that were already washed and placed those inside the pot.

He also added in some turnips and celery. He ripped the skin of the onions off, a familiar scent of onions. He chopped the onions into 4 moderate pieces and placed those in the pot. He grabbed the handles of the pot and placed it under the sink. Letting the water fill the pot, Mathieu tackled the meat next. He cut them up in large pieces that still could be eaten in three bites. The type of meat he used was beef shanks from the butcher's shop he visited yesterday.

He stopped the water and placed the pieces of meat in and began to boil. He added the necessary spices: cloves, garlic, bay leaves etc. He cleaned up his mess to gently cut some French bread as sides.*

All throughout this, he whistled a song he caught off his brother, Alfred. Francis watched him cook. He cooked magnificently, like he was raised in a cooking household all his life and trained at _Le Cordon Bleu*_. He definitely had his skill in cooking. Not to mention Mathieu also looked similar in a way, not inferior but never superior.

Francis sketched Mathieu who was at the sink. The way the locks of straw would brush against his cheek ever so gently. How his mouth at the corners would twitch upward.

Francis continued to draw up until he reached Mathieu's clothing.

_Mon dieu it's horrible!_

His son wore a loose hoodie that were a few sizes too large. He also wore loose jeans that were possibly bought from a thrift store. The shoes he had on were also scraggly, multiple holes around them with duck-tape holding the front part together.

How could the son of a self-made billionaire, supermodel and internationally known fashion designer wear such cheap peasant clothes? It was a very outrage in itself. Francis noticed his laptop was charging in his office in the other side of the room.

Francis, through the only useful American-the Internet, Francis bought an entire wardrobe for Mathieu. This would not do! If he was going to make up to Mathieu for all those years of no communication, he would start by getting him expensive clothing. If only he knew his size in clothing. He couldn't be larger than Francis himself. Maybe pudgy but that was a different story. Francis was sure that Mathieu was taller than he was.

Francis got closer to Mathieu who was stirring the pot to a boil. The sleeve of the large jacket revealed slender wrists, almost like a girl's.

A carrot piece jumped out of the pot and onto the floor. Mathieu thought nothing of it and tossed it back into the pot as it were nothing. Francis raised a brow._ You could have at least washed it._

"Five second rule Papa" Mathieu replied, almost as Francis himself asked the question.

Francis just shook his head. _Children. _Yet Mathieu wasn't a child. He was a fully-grown adult. Francis wondered how well _Angleterre* _raised him. His old rival was such an old fashioned man that it wouldn't be shocking to see Mathieu in breeches and stocking.

Francis wheeled off; leaving Mathieu to his own devices whilst he went into his office to see what has been going on in the world. A month more in that stuffy room surely would have made him go insane. Francis wheeled pass a mirror and wheeled back. _Sacre Bleu! _What is this!

Crow's feet on his gorgeous face!

_Merde! _

This would not do! How could he have ignored his beauty regime for a month and not realize this! There lines everywhere! At the corners of his eyes, around his forehead and mouth!

God shoot him now…

Francis was about to yell at someone to get him his facial creams when out came the most horrendous sound in all of history.

The very sound of a frog croak.

Francis cried. Angleterre would just love to hear him now wouldn't he? To mock him in his time of misery and called a frog prince.

"_Papa? _You own a pet frog?" Mathieu called out, wondering where the croak of a frog was heard.

Francis sobbed even more.

He punched what he thought to be a wall but it was actually the mirror. He may have punched his _CaFa Gitchi_ mirror a little too hard. It shattered under the pressure and successfully cut his hand. Mathieu heard the shattered and immediately ran towards the sound.

Francis held out his hand, letting the blood drip down. Blood was such a pretty color. Red was the very essence of life isn't it?

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><p>Later, after Mathieu wrapped Francis' hand in bandages, Arthur called. Mathieu left Francis to freeload for a little while.<p>

"Yes Arthur I'm doing fine…No. it hasn't been a bother. " Mathieu sighed. Arthur worried too much.

"_Are you sure lad? That pompous bastard hasn't been working you too hard has he?" _The Briton asked caringly.

"No…it's been more of a silence actually. He was out like a light for a few days and after that, he didn't really do anything than that. He's been looking out in space lately." Mathieu placed the phone under his chin and between his shoulder.

"_You can never be too careful about these things Matthew!" _The Briton urged.

"Arthur please? My father is paralyzed and has lost the ability to speak. All day he just sulks in his room and stares out to the window. My dad's in pain Arthur…can't you see. He's hurt and crushed because Mister Antonio or Mister Gilbert didn't bother to assist him at the hearings. He's crushed because he has no one to rely upon. It wasn't like I was needed back at the company…"

"_That's preposterous! You were very well needed especially after Alfred ran off on us! Who else could I rely upon to inherit my company but you Matthew? You are the only successful child I've managed to raise after Alfred…" _

"So I was your back-up eh? " Mathieu remarked cynically.

"_Don't take it like that lad…We both know Alfred couldn't have managed it anyways…really the boy should have just joined the military like he said he would. " _

"I'm sorry Arthur. But I'm needed here in Paris more. Someone has to take care of my Father and that's me. Besides…I'm the eldest anyways, I don't mind." Mathieu smiled.

"_Alright. I'll be sending money anyways to cover your expenses." _

"Arthur-no! I'll get a job here. You don't need to waste your money on—" Mathieu argued.

" _I can waste my money however I please poppet! I bet you your idiot father hasn't got a penny to his name now after wasting it on wine and all sorts of expensive scrap! Besides…I've been quite awful to you since the hearing haven't I?" _

"Arthur. That's just to be expected. I spoke out of—"

"_You didn't speak out of term. You spoke out of kindness lad. Your hearts too big that's the problem. I don't know where you get it from but it's most certainly not from Father that's for sure." _

"I get it from you Arthur. You were the one taught me that."

"_*chuckle* Flattery will get you nowhere Lad. I only did my best. I'll leave you to be then. Goodbye Matthew." _

"Au revoir Arthur!" Mathieu cheekily replied.

"_Now wait just a bloody—"_

Mathieu hung up. There would be no point in worrying Arthur more. Mathieu dried off his hands from washing some dishes and began to mop the marble floors.

He whistled again. Thoughts going back and forth between memories and the present. He thought about the first time he saw his father's face. He was at Arthur's newly furnished office building.

_He was sitting in the lobby with his newly acquainted Kumakitchi or Kumajenso, which Arthur said his father sent to him for his birthday. _

_He sat quietly and well-behaved on the large chair where his small legs dangled, not yet touching the floor. He scanned around the room until his eye was caught by a magazine cover._

_On the cover was a man who was half naked on the cover. He had very pale skin that was translucent like snow. Golden curls famed his face. They almost looked like gold. He had very big blue eyes which were framed by golden lashes. He wore only a long pelt of black fur only. It contrasted deeply to his snowy white skin. He smiled innocently in the way where he knew he was doing something he shouldn't but he's doing it for his amusement. _

_He nervously grabbed the magazine and ripped off the cover page. He didn't show anyone until Arthur found it in his room when he was cleaning._

"_That's your piss-poor father poppet. Once again sinning the world with his horrible frog face." _

He liked Arthur well enough. Arthur didn't cook the greatest (95% of his food is trash. The 5% is toxic waste) and maybe he came off as rude and standoffish but he means well. He made sure that there was food on the table and a roof above his head.

He has a cynical personality and has sharp-mouth but he was always nice to Alfred and him. From over the years he's learned about how his Father had many love affairs and how he and Arthur are old rivals. But his father has to have been kind enough to let Arthur take care of Alfred and him right?

When they were young, they didn't have enough money to buy new school clothes so Arthur taught himself to sew and made them fashionable clothing out of clothes from the thrift store. From there, he made them blankets, pillows, pajamas up until the point he started to build his new company, Kirkland Revels, a publishing company.

Mathieu still longed to go with his original goal of being doctor or a vet. But business management wasn't a bad choice. A little bland but it was still a good choice.

Mathieu sighed. Life is just full of mysteries and twists.

Outside, the sky seemed to darken and soon it began to cleanse the area. Droplets hit the pedestrians who began scurrying to shelter away from the rain.

" Oh no. It seems the rain has come." Mathieu didn't particularly like the rain. Being in London where it rained as often as a hello seemed to do that to person.

_Paris showers never last long_

Francis wrote down on a piece of paper.

It was true. Even if it rained, it only meant that the sun would soon shine brighter the next time.

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><p><strong>*The meal Mattie is making could closely been a French dish called <strong>_**Pot au Feu**_** although there are a lot of variations.**

*** Le Cordon Bleu is culinary school in Paris that is renowned in culinary scholastics and Julia Childs also studied there. There are more schools around the world although the one in Paris is more well known. **

*** Angleterre means England in French**

**So hi! Thanks for reading and please continue to review cuz I feed off reviews. I love you all! sorry if updates aren't fast enough. Writer's block. :P**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi Everybody! I'm back and with a new chapter for you all. This is just fair warning to you all, this story will not end and will a sequel attaching itself to it as part of Francis' story which I will explain later and someone is going to die...really.**

**Just a heads up so far. suprise ending.**

* * *

><p>Mathieu balanced his checkbook. Mathieu handled all the press phone calls. Mathieu baked him cookies.<p>

Mathieu this. Mathieu that.

Francis shook all of these thoughts out of his head.

His son was perfect. He was responsible, he was caring, he was clean enough for Francis' tastes, and he was attractive enough to be seen with and had certainly inherited the best of Francis.

He had a silky texture to his hair, one that Francis spent half a lifetime attempting to keep it as soft as a newborn. He had unblemished skin. Francis had bought so many creams and moisturizers just to keep the ones that did grow under control. He had a perfectly slender face with high cheek bones _avec _enough jaw to be a man with a perfectly aristocratic nose.

He had cupid bow lips like Francis himself. A sweet dip on his upper lip like the bow of the well-known god Cupid from the romans. Not very visible but if you looked closely enough…poof. It was right there.

Francis drew that out too on his sketch book. He began drawing familiar faces, like his grandfather Roma, his mother, his father by memory. Once he was done, he began noticing where certain facial features came from. Boy, now did he understand the gene pool. Francis turned the page of the old notebook and startled himself with the image that was on the next page.

It was the picture he drew of Antonio and Gilbert as they were at Pointe de la Torche. Gilbert was on top of a rock on the natural pier where Antonio sat down watching Gilbert announce to the world that he was the awesomest in the world. Antonio wore a straw hat along with a cotton shirt and shorts. He had lost his sandals in the sand that day because Gilbert thought it would be hilarious to bury them somewhere on the beach.

Francis smiled at those fond memories of his friends.

He flipped through pages and noticed a small little family portrait of the Kirkland clan. They were all there and Arthur standing out with his rather large…how do you say?…King Kong sized eyebrows. Now the other brothers had the similar trait running in the genes, from the youngest brother, Peter up all the way to the Scottish side of Arthur's elder brother.

His smile grew larger and he flipped though more memories. Sketches of interesting people he's seen, random drawings of the city, skilled drawings of beautiful women he's slept with that had beautiful sleeping faces at night.

Francis noted the date of the last entry he wrote.

22-7-1988

Inside was a folded up photo of when he was still in his small studio apartment struggling to become a designer along as an artist. There was a mess everywhere. Paints and fabrics strewn along the apartment.

It was the photo that Ludwig, Gilbert's younger brother had taken. Francis was in some jeans and a button up shirt with an apron covered in paint in glued he had used. Gilbert was at the walls, amateurishly painting yellow pictures of birds on the white walls and Antonio, had his feet paint on the bottom had stepped on a large canvas Francis had on the floor, leaving footprint on their along with Gilbert's and his own on the canvas.

Francis was instantly saddened by the memory of the studio apartment where as he barely became famous, his studio apartment was burned down in a freak accident caused by some hooligans. So much fabric and paint was ruined. So many good memories burnt away.

Francis closed the sketch book abruptly. He didn't care for it anymore. He tossed over his shoulder and began to roll his way back into the kitchen. He had a nice bottle of wine hidden right behind the counter…

" Papa! You'll spoil your lunch!"

Mathieu yelled from the balcony. Francis closed the secret compartment grudgingly, not willing to waste Mathieu's beloved food. Francis wheeled his way into the kitchen. A pot was boiling over with the fire underneath. Francis lowered the fire and stretched his hand to take off the lid of the pot. Steam came out of the pot and Francis instantly recognized the smell.

He placed the lid on the pot once more, leaving the lid ajar. Francis noticed that all the windows were open, allowing the light and fresh air to stream in. The noise of the busy Parisians in the below in the streets streamed like a gentle wave.

Francis noticed the fax machine in his office was on and he wheeled over, pushing himself to the office and noticing it was from Feliks.

_Hi Franni! Totally love the designs! Send me some more later kay' Franni? Bye-Feliks_

" Papa! Look what I found!" Mathieu excitedly yelled. In his arms and wrapped in the expensive towel which was one of his Turkish towels that he had bought from his business trip in Turkey, was a small messily haired kitten with shocking blue eyes. Mathieu obviously seemed excited. He placed in on the counter island in the kitchen.

_Not in the kitchen Mathieu. _

Francis mentally yelled, unleashing the inner cook inside of him. It was unsanitary to place a filthy street animal right on the counter where his food could possibly be made. Francis didn't know where to chastise him for placing the animal on the counter or lean away from the rules.

He missed out his entire childhood and everything else. He knew for a fact at one time or another that children will find animals and beg their parents to keep them.

It was only a kitten after all…

Mathieu noticed right off the bat that the new kitten had the exact personality of his father from what he's seen on documentaries and from what Arthur told him. He's very picky about what he eats, he cleans himself every hour without fail and he's absolutely loves attention.

Papa named the kitten or now cat, Lafayette. An aristocratic and elegant name suited for only the best, as the name suggested.

Lafayette was a well-behaved cat, if you didn't annoy him or pester him. He was handsome, with pure platinum blonde fur that was very long and groomed with bright blue eyes, eerily similar to his father's.

Mathieu found him stuck in the climbing roses by the outside balcony with his body, half-way entangled in the vines.

Lafayette absolutely hated getting his fur dirty and despised with a passion, rainy days and the post-rain where streets and sidewalks would be full of puddles and mud where he could possibly dirty his paws. He did not like going outside without grooming himself and absolutely adored being brushed gently.

But he became family and what can you do? He got into the routine pretty quickly.

Every day, Mathieu takes his father for a walk around the streets after breakfast, Lafayette settles himself on Francis' lap as he rides the wheel chair. Mathieu would often chat about what enters his mind, from the weather and divulging into his past as Francis and Lafayette listened.

They would eat home-made meals made by Mathieu in their rich little apartment complex. Mathieu was extremely talented at his French cooking and pastry making. Lafayette loved seafood the best!

Spring was setting closer upon them until the day of Lent came upon them. Mathieu, being the good little Christian he was, attended the morning mass of Ash Wednesday. Francis was more or less forced to go and sit in the front as he listened to the Priest preach about how Lent is a time of repentance and how we humans are natural sinners that must aspire to salvation.

Francis honestly tuned out of the church and with his ever-growing hair, he successfully hid a pair of ear buds using his scarf and long winter coat. He listened to Edith Piaf and other songs and managed to look attentive by nodding his head and mouth out lyrics at times when they would sing when honestly he was listening to something completely unrelated. Call him a sinner but there was no possibly way he could listen to the old man preach without criticizing him on his horrible fashion sense.

After church, after receiving their ashes,they walked back home to Lafayette who mewed incessantly at being alone.

Mathieu declared he would give up maple syrup for the forty days and that Francis should pick something to give up. Francis waved him off.

_Oui_ eventually.

And that eventually never came. Days passed by. Soon it was Easter and he watched little French children gather plastic eggs full of goodies in April. It showered more regularly nowadays. April was always a rainy month with showers suddenly coming into their morning walks.

May came by and _mon dieu_ was it beautiful. With all the rain that poured in March and April, all the flowers and trees were very lush and green all around. The city was flourishing and buzzing, as tourists came in with their odd accents and teenagers and schoolchildren began to relax for their summer breaks. Shop owners became ready for the income of people and the population seemed to grow with every passing day. Mathieu stopped wearing his heavy hoodies and opted out for loose t-shirts and the lightweight shirts his father bought him earlier. Lafayette seemed to be doing a little courting of his own as he snuck out after their morning walks and came back in time for lunch and then to leave again only to return by dinner time.

Francis, getting more recognized as a silent designer had orders flooding in from magazines and celebrities wanting his designs. He noticed a strange transition from the designs he made before the accident to the ones he made after.

They were becoming more classic and elegant with subtle flairs and odd quirks. They began going into the metropolitan part of Paris, going into the fashion streets made of diamonds filled with beautiful rich people in their designer jeans that cost who knows how many euros and bags imported from all sorts of places. Luxuries sports cars that would cost a common man three times his salary for the next four life times.

Francis would have joint these people with his fount of honor and may have spoken ill of the bourgeois or the new rich from the middle classes. Now, he doesn't care much for it. Being silent has given him the time to watch how others act, observing them and watching how the masks of rich are placed and glued and will often slip up.

He saw how these roses with prickly thorns turn an ugly black and then make the rest of the garden inferior with their arrogance until the rest of the garden leaves and the garden became packed with weeds upon weeds until the garden dies off.

Mathieu was walking him down streets of Rue de Louvre. Francis has walked these streets hundreds of times, business, pleasure (but the first time actually seeing the streets for what they are) but Mathieu was captivated by the city. He enjoyed everyone's accents. He loved wandering the Parisian streets, loving the tender history of the city and how the new and old coincide with each other in the city.

Nothing at all like Toronto.

Mathieu has always wanted to go to France, ever since he was a young child. He knew a bit of French from the schooling required in Canada and how it became interchangeable in English literature. He wanted to be with these inquisitive and strange Parisians who sought the future and glorified their past.

He had inherited his Father's French looks no? The French side of him was what won the girls over instead of Alfred's rough and messy exterior.

He half-wondered what Alfred would do if he met their Father? He'd probably whine about their accents and beg to be taken to a McDonalds close by only to be swayed by the French women walking around.

The women here were very attractive. They weren't like the laid-back Californians with their loose shirts, short shorts and tanned skin from being in the sun. They weren't like the London females who sexily teased you with their long jackets that covered their skin making every available piece of flesh a surprise. These women walked seductively, subtly moving their hips in long skirts with high heels carrying briefcases of work with them. With soft feminine touches here and there and irresistibly natural skins enhanced by natural beauty products.

He was a male after all.

Lafayette seemed to enjoy himself with the warm weather and warm breezes going through his fur.

On May 14, they wandered around Paris on Museum Night. Mathieu took an incredible amount of photos, about each and every painting, statue and sculpture allowed to be photographed. Francis took one of Mathieu by the Louvre Museum by its glass encased pyramid. Francis took many photographs of Mathieu, like a parent would for his child, wanting to capture of moment.

They watched an intense Tennis match by play-hard tennis competitors at Roland Garros. They streamed down by the Seine River on a diner boat, admiring and enjoying some cuisine at twilight, admiring the lit streets and pleasantness of it all.

Mathieu laughed as a sudden thunderstorm scared the jeepers out of Lafayette, whose long fur stood on ends and hissed at the window. Francis merely comforted the frightened cat in his lap.

In all, these last few months were the happiest moments in Francis' life so far. Better than having to seduce women and men into his bed or having to attend rich socialite gatherings only to put up face.

Nothing could break his happiness…not even wine.

* * *

><p><strong>Avec- (French) with<strong>

**Oui-(French) Yes!**

**mon dieu-(French)My god or oh my god.**

**The fount of honour -(Latin: fons honorum) -refers to a person, who, by virtue of his or her official position, has the exclusive right of conferring legitimate titles of nobility and orders of chivalry to other persons. Especially popular in the middle ages up until the Old Regime.**

**bourgeois-A French word bourgeoisie (citizen class) is used denoting a social class oriented to materialism and hedonism, and to upholding the interests of the capitalist class. In the pre–Revolutionary French feudal order, the term bourgeois denoted a social class that comprised the wealthier members of the Third Estate, the commons of the French realm.**

**So yeah. Don't say I didn't warn you about a suprise ending coming up in a few chapters. WerewolvesBite moved away so I'm without a fanfic buddy. My friends are lame. Me and my Friend ZombieRots talked about America's kids, the 50 states and how they would be included in WW1 and WW2 and she won't shut up about how Japan must have felt bombing a little island and how he's a jerk and blah blah blah and how Alaska must be taken therapy sessions cuz Russia got her pissed and i'm like...I don't give a fuck. Nations for the most part, I believe, have stopped regretting decisions affecting others and move on with their lives. If they kept regretting every little mistake then they wouldn't be nations. Yeah they'll be guilty but what can they do? The past is the past? We can only look to the future. So i don't really feel any sympathy for any one of them anymore. Germany caused the Holocaust. Horrible i know but it's happened before and the only reason we're so traumatized about is because it only happened 2 generations. That's what's scary. We hate Hitler because yeah he was racist, but he wasn't the only one but he's awful because he was the one who suceeded.**

**Sorry...longest Author's note I've done in a while.**

**Please Read and Review. **


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